


angel eyes

by klefaeries



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Body Worship, Cleric!Mercy, F/F, Reader-Insert, aasimar!mercy, dnd-based environment, dont drink tea made from dryad hair, itll make u horny, then u may drink the horny hair tea at your own discretion, unless u have a gf ready to take care of u no questions asked, wlw smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: Aasimar and aphrodisiacs don't mix well. You and Angela find out the hard (fun) way.





	angel eyes

**Author's Note:**

> hello i wrote this dumb thing at work because not even the eyes of god could stop me from writing it once the idea got in my head.
> 
> i guess this is part of my semi-ongoing (semi because this is only number two) oneshot series of completely unrelated "overwatch but it's a dnd au" reader insert smut. i have plenty more ideas bouncing around in my head, so maybe more will happen in the future? who knows.
> 
> mercy is an aasimar (celestial blooded) and cleric because uhhhhh. that's kinda a given. you're a ranger, aka my fave class, but it's not really important.
> 
> this is so niche idk if anyone will even read it but!!! gotta give some love to my main support hero.

The mission is supposed to be simple. Enter the forest, find the dryad that has been wreaking havoc and chaos upon a small village, and convince her to live in harmony with the people that had once been her allies again. Fey creatures could be capricious, of course. That much is common knowledge. However, you and Angela were certain that with a little explanation as to why the villagers have needed to encroach a few more feet into the forest (on account of opening their homes to refugees from a disease-stricken hamlet just a few hours up the road), the dryad would cease her attacks and all would be well.

You were both wrong. 

Very, very wrong.

You are caught in a storm of leaves. Vines snap wildly at your feet as you duck beneath a swaying branch, twisting the upper half of your body to dodge a blast of arcane energy hurtling your way. An inhuman shriek pierces your ears as it misses, crashing into the trunk of a poor, unsuspecting tree, its bark cracking from the impact. Your bow is just a useless ornament in your hands until you can get free of the savage maze of vines and branches, which is easier said than done.

_ "Engel,  _ are you alright?” Angela calls from her vantage point somewhere outside the swirling mass of angry leaves and tree branches that are hellbent on tearing you apart. She sounds far too calm, as if you aren’t being attacked by a furious army of plants, but that’s just Angela. Ever the pragmatic cleric, she is most likely already working on a spell to remove whatever curse is affecting the dryad.

Because it is obvious that it is  _ indeed  _ a curse. Dryads don’t usually have glowing red eyes or speak in warped Infernal. However the poor creature fell victim to something so wicked is a question for after, when she isn’t trying to slice you to ribbons.

“Just peachy!” you cry out in answer as you nimbly leap over a mass of thick roots that are just beginning to tremble as the dryad’s magic calls them to life. “I can do this all day!”

“No, you cannot, and we both know it.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so blunt about it.”

“But if I’m not, then who will keep your massive ego in check?”

The dryad screams in her horribly twisted voice, no doubt not taking your playful banter too kindly. There is a flash of blinding white light from somewhere beyond the sea of swirling green, and the curtain of angry plants parts for the briefest of moments.

You can see Angela. Her cloak billows out as she channels divine energy through every inch of her body. Her eyes, normally as blue as a summer sky, glow golden and bright. Her hands are raised in the air, fingers glowing as golden as her eyes, and the faint shimmering outline of two feathered wings emerges from her back. She speaks in Celestial, and all your human ears can pick up is a voice so songlike and melodious, you want to fall into its lullaby and let all of your sorrows melt away. 

Her hands move in intricate patterns through the air so fast you can’t keep up even with your keen eyes. The song grows in volume. The emerald maelstrom of the dryad’s magic disperses as easily as blowing on a dandelion head. Razor-sharp leaves scatter and drift to the ground, harmless and plain.

The vines and roots and branches freeze. There is silence.

And then, from the shadows between the trees, the dryad emerges. Her eyes are bright crimson, the color of fresh blood, and glow with hellfire. The bark of her skin is rotting and black instead of its natural chestnut brown. Her hair, which should be as lush as a spring meadow and full of flowers blossoming, lays limp and shriveled about her shoulders. 

She hisses as she stalks towards you menacingly with fingernails curled into sharp talons. Rage emanates from her in intense waves. You grip your bow and aim it with steady hands, feet planted firmly on the ground. You don’t want to hurt the dryad, and you most definitely don’t want to kill her, but it’s obvious she’s beyond normal reasoning as long as the curse flows through her veins.

“Stand aside, my love. Normal weapons won’t damage her if she’s been cursed.” Angela is at your side in an instance, the divinity of her bloodline still clinging to her in vibrant golden light. It’s almost blinding with her so close. The dryad flinches and draws back a few inches at the brilliance, shielding her eyes and hissing again.

“Can you cast a curse removal so quickly after performing a dispellment?” you ask. 

Angela smiles and says nothing. You feel silly for asking, because of course she can. She is an aasimar; the divine magic that exists solely to protect the mortal realm from the evils of the Abyss comes to her as naturally as scouting the mountains and shooting arrows does to you.

She begins to speak in Celestial again. Your memory flashes to the first time you heard the beautiful sound, and nearly wept in her arms just for the chance to hear it again. The song echoes throughout the forest, weaving in and out of trees, as she approaches the dryad. The fey creature whimpers, a pitiful sound compared to how viciously she had been attacking minutes before, and crouches so that her face is completely hidden by her rotting hair and sickly arms.

The song is gentle and kind. It is compassion brought to life, full of healing notes and forgiving melodies. Angela lays her hands on the shoulders of the dryad, the translucent outlines of wings becoming full and visible for a moment. They are white as the snow-capped mountains of the north and spread out like those of a swan, or equally elegant creature.

The dryad screams when Angela touches her. She writhes and moans, shaking her head wildly, as the divine magic seeps into her from Angela’s hands. Both glow golden and white. The air grows warm. A chorus of voices whisper in your mind, speaking in tongues you cannot nor will you ever be able to understand.

And then it is over.

The aspects of Angela’s divinity have vanished, and she is just a normal-looking woman. Beautiful, of course, but her eyes are blue once more and her pale skin no longer glows. And there is certainly no pair of feathered angel wings sprouting from her back. The dryad slowly lifts her head as the curse disintegrates from her body, revealing thick, healthy bark and emerald eyes. Her verdant hair sprouts a bouquet of tiny pink roses all over, and the sweet smell of flowers fills the air.

“O-Oh…”

The dryad looks to you and Angela, eyes darting between the both of you multiple times, her mouth gaping in an ‘o’ of shock. 

“The curse has been lifted. I think you’ll find you no longer desire to tear everyone who enters your forest to pieces,” Angela explains with a triumphantly tender smile, removing her hands from the dryad’s shoulders.

The dryad stands up, fiddles with her silken dress that is no longer stained with darkness, and looks around the forest. Her lip trembles. Her hands shake as they knead and pull the diaphanous fabric clinging to her curvy form. She takes a deep shuddering breath, turns her head back to you and Angela…

...and immediately bursts into tears.

\---

The dryad wasn’t so bad when she wasn’t trying to kill you. She was actually quite charming and pleasant, once she stopped crying and explained the situation.

A demon has been making its rounds through the area, powerful and devious. It created the plague in the village a few miles away, and cursed the dryad when she tried to keep it from passing through her forest. It most likely returned back to the Abyss, its chaos complete, and there’s nothing much either you or Angela can do except report back to the village with your findings.

The dryad thanks you profusely for saving her. She loves the village, and is horrified that she’s attacked so many of the citizens. She leaves you with a gift of the flowers that grow from her hair, which supposedly can be brewed into an excellent tea that rejuvenates the body.

You’re a little skeptical about drinking hair tea, but Angela accepts it graciously and promises to use it the moment you two purchase a room at the local inn and have a moment to relax.

You return to the village and tell the council who hired you to fix the dryad problem that the forest is safe again, and that it would be wise to invest in some other clerics to draw wards against demons around the perimeter. They agree heartily, and beg to pay for your lodgings in addition to the pouch of gold pieces they already had been planning on rewarding you with. 

Angela almost says no, because she’s terrible at accepting any kind of reward, much less one that is more than was originally agreed upon. But you know by the way she’s leaning against you that the high-level spells she used on the dryad took a lot out of her, and she is in no state to argue or refuse the goodwill of those she has helped. 

You readily accept the village’s offer, much to her chagrin. Later that evening, after both of you have had a long soak in the public baths, you find yourself mindlessly sharpening your arrows on the bed you two plan to share when a high-pitched gasp from Angela startles you.

“...babe? What’s wrong?”

You look over at the other side of the room where she’s sitting with a steaming mug of the dryad’s hair-flower-tea in her hands. Her cheeks have an unusual flush to them and her blonde hair seems frizzy as the occasional strand falls from her braid and frames her porcelain face. 

She sets the mug on the small end table and shakes her head, giving you a forced smile. “N-nothing,  _ mein engel.  _ Just, er...feeling the relaxing effects of the dryad’s gift. I think I’ll be off to bed early.”

“You haven’t even had dinner!” you exclaim, leaving your arrows on the bed and gliding over to where she’s sitting. “You need to replenish your strength, babe, and just sleeping won’t be enough.”

She avoids your eyes, focusing on a particularly interesting water stain on the wall ahead of the both of you. “I will eat in the morning. I’d truly just rather lay down for the rest of the evening.”

“Angela,  _ you’re  _ the cleric. You of all people know how to properly recover from intense spellcasting.” 

You raise your hand and place it on her forehead. Her skin is hot and she flushes a couple shades darker at your touch.  _ Did she get a fever from using so much magic?  _ you think, unable to keep the bewildered look from your face. Her aasimar constitution and her cleric training make it so something like this almost never happens.

It’s then when you notice how she squeezes her legs together. It’s a subtle, almost hidden movement, but you grew up in the mountains and forests hunting prey smaller than your head. Your perception is far higher than most others’. 

Angela’s breathing has escalated and she licks her lips, swallowing thickly. She shifts in the chair, swinging one leg over the other in an effort to hide how she squeezes them together again. Her fingers tug on the lacy strings of her cloak, pulling it off and letting it fall to the floorboards beneath her. Her nipples are hard and taut below the thin shirt she wears underneath the cloak. She suddenly smells sweet—well, sweeter than usual, more like a field of fresh flowers than her normal vanilla aroma.

You know this smell. 

“...the tea,” you mutter as realization dawns on you, smacking your forehead.

“The tea,” Angela affirms in a thick voice, hiding her reddened face in her hands. “I-I think it has...aphrodisiac qualities that the dryad may not have been aware of.”

“Mielikki’s tits,” you swear, because it’s all you can think of to say.

She glares at you through her fingers. She never likes it when you use any god’s name in a vulgar manner. Hazards of having celestial blood flowing through her veins, you surmise.

“It should fade with a good night’s rest,” she assures you quickly before you can say anything more. 

You frown. “...but won’t it be uncomfortable? I mean...those weeks leading up to me finally telling you how I felt? I was so horny all the damn time! It sucked! I had to sneak off into the woods so you couldn’t hear me!”

Angela sputters and stammers and you have to bite down a laugh. She enjoys sex just as much as you do. You just have the tendency to approach it more head-on than she does. 

You kneel down on the floor, placing your hands on her shoulders. She looks at you, slowly bringing her hands from her face, and huffs through her pursed lips. “Let me take care of you,” you intone in a low voice, smiling up at her when your words make her blush even more. “You’re always taking care of me, in every situation we find ourselves in. Let me do something for you in return. All you need do is relax and enjoy it.”

She gazes at you in silence for what seems like an eternity. Then, slowly, she nods; her arms reach out and her fingers find purchase in your hair, caressing your head and pulling you so that you are but a few inches away from her face.

“Make love to me,” Angela whispers in a voice so hoarse and full of need that you feel your own core begin to awaken with a delicious heat. “Make me sing your name,  _ mein engel. _ ”

You grin. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You kiss her. Her lips are soft and full and yield readily to your own, a breathy sigh escaping between her teeth when your tongue snakes its way into her mouth. You will never tire of the way Angela tastes—like starlight and sunshine, blending together in a perfect balance of splendor. Your hands slide underneath her shirt, finding her breasts and cupping them gingerly. One thumb grazes a nipple. The other you pinch between your fingers, so softly that the pressure is as fleeting as a butterfly’s wings.

Angela moans quietly into your mouth. Her fingers are lost in your hair, tugging you closer. You break from the kiss, giving her a cheeky smirk when she frowns, and lower your head to her collarbone instead. You begin to knead and roll the supple flesh of her breasts in your hands, massaging them. At the same time your tongue lapses daintily along the sensitive skin of her throat, placing kisses in an arching pattern all along her neck. 

“You tease me, my love,” Angela whispers impatiently. 

“Because I love you,” you reply against her skin with a simple shrug.

But you take her restlessness into account and give her breasts one final squeeze, removing your hands from under her shirt. Your fingers tiptoe their way down her chest, her stomach, her thighs. Angela shudders, eyes heavy. Her legs spread, revealing a spot of dampness between her thighs, her desire staining her trousers.

“I’m almost offended,” you tease as your fingers brush lightly against the area, one side of your mouth curling in a smirk. “You’ve never been this wet for me so quickly. That tea really did the trick, didn’t it?”

“Oh, hush, you!” Angela exclaims. She clamps her mouth shut when you dip your fingers into the band of her trousers and slowly slide them down her legs, shivering when her slit becomes exposed to the cool evening air. Her thighs quake when you run your fingers through her golden curls, damp and eager. A sound somewhere between a moan and whimper rises from her throat when you dance along her clit, pushing down on it once with your thumb and slipping two fingers into her folds.

“H-hah…”

She almost sighs when your digits enter her, her walls already pulsing anxiously around them. You look up to see her head thrown back, eyes half shut, mouth parted, and one of her hands under her shirt and cupping her own breast. She doesn’t know you’re staring, even as you begin to pump your fingers in and out of her slick cunt, thumb caressing the tip of her clit in phantasmal touches. Her breathing quickens and she begins to massage and squeeze herself, nodding listlessly as her thighs roll open even more. 

Her skin begins to glisten from sweat, golden hair falling in front of her face as you accelerate your ministrations. Her tongue licks her pink lips, moaning softly as she bites down on her lower lip. All the while you gaze at her, your own cunt throbbing in want and your nipples hardening and threatening to pierce through your shirt. 

She’s ethereal.

She’s a goddess.

She’s an angel.

You can’t take it anymore. You have to taste her.

You bend your head down, nestling it between her legs, and breathe in the scent of her sex. It’s intoxicating. The tips of your toes tingle with anticipation as you nuzzle the insides of her thighs, fingers continuously thrusting. You take your thumb away from her clit, eliciting a confused whine from her, and slip that third finger into her aching heat. Your mouth takes your thumb’s place, tongue sliding out and lapping at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

If kissing Angela is like tasting sunshine and starlight, then devouring her core is like tasting divinity itself.

Angela yelps, body stiffening. “O-oh...there…!” she encourages you breathlessly, hands flying from out under her shirt and gripping a fistful of your hair and tugging you further against her. You capture her clit in your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue around it, fingers deep in the contours of her heat and refusing to lesson the momentum. 

Her hips buck and her body shudders. She’s close; your name is dripping from her lips, and she’s starting to keen in Celestial, the song like a thousand bells ringing at once. Angela’s inner walls squeeze and tremble around your fingers. Her hips thrust into your face, and for a moment you’re worried she’s going to fall out of the chair, but her grip on your hair seems to keep her steady. It’s a wonder that you can even form coherent thoughts at all at this point, with how much your need to please her is echoing off the walls of your mind.

You’re lost in the salty-sweet taste of her sex, the smell of her desire, the heat of her passion.

At last, you curl your fingers inside of her, stroking the velvet softness of her cunt and reaching for the spot that will make her come undone. You kiss and suck the tip of her clit, tongue worshipping the small mound of sensitivity. Angela cries out and squeezes your head between her legs, fingernails biting into your scalp.

She cums. 

Slickness coats your fingers. You take your time in pulling them out of her, reveling in the lewd squelching sounds they make. You lift your head from her clit and meet her eyes—the pupils are dilated, and the blue is beginning to give way to an intense gold, almost like a sunset. She removes one hand where its entangled in your hand and grabs your wrist in it, bringing it up to her mouth.

She slips fingers that had been pumping and stroking inside of her into her mouth, tongue wrapping around each digit and slowly licking them clean, keeping her gaze steady with your own the entire time she does it. Your breath catches in your throat at the sheer eroticism of it all, and you ache to touch yourself in an attempt to relieve the pressure that’s been building up between your legs ever since the whole thing began. You wriggle on your knees, your core begging for attention.

“Very good,” Angela hums against your fingers, her voice husky and full of untamed lust. Her skin is beginning to shine, and not from the sweat your touch caused. She glows from the inside. 

Not for the first time since meeting the cleric, you wonder how in all the gods’ names did you get so lucky to fall in love with her, and have her love you back.

“Oh dear.” There's mischief in her tone as she looks you up and down, taking in the way you breath heavily. Her body twitches every so often from the aftershocks of her orgasm, but the passion in her now-golden eyes is even more so than they were before you began to take care of her. She smiles.

If you ever told someone an aasimar could look so fiendish as Angela does when she’s going to ravage you speechless, they would never believe you.

“It seems I’m not as satisfied as I thought I would be. Perhaps that means it’s your turn, my love? You are looking rather... _ starved _ for attention.”

Moments later, when the two of you are rolling on the bed and Angela is practically tearing your clothes off, you find yourself thinking the only lucid thought you will have for rest of the night: 

_ I’ll have to thank that dryad tomorrow, and maybe ask her for more of her magical sex tea. _

Because when Angela’s mouth is on you and her hands are mapping the contours of your body, the rest of your thoughts are lost in the very essence of her.


End file.
